Clean Take

Lior weaved through the crowd, his feet barely touching the uneven stone roads. The pickpocket was fast—but so was he.

The older boy slipped between carts and barrels, dodging hands and curses, moving like a shadow. Lior followed without hesitation.

His heart pounded. Not just from the run, but from the thrill of it. The rush of being somewhere he shouldn't be.

The thief finally ducked into an alleyway—a mistake.

Lior slowed his steps. Then stopped.

From the alley, the thief peeked out, glancing both ways. His breath was ragged, his hands twitchy, but he was grinning. Pleased with himself.

Lior smirked.

"Didn't say thanks," he called.

The boy flinched, snapping his head toward Lior. Wide-eyed. Suspicious.

"What?"

"You were about to get caught," Lior said. "If it weren't for me."

The thief narrowed his eyes. Sizing him up. Lior could practically hear the thoughts in his head. Who was this kid? What did he want? Was he stupid?

"Dunno what you're talking about," the thief muttered, clutching his stolen goods tighter. "Go home, rat."

Lior took a step forward. Then another.

"Gonna tell me your name?" he asked.

The thief scoffed. "You think we're friends now?"

Lior shrugged. "You ran."

"So?"

"So, if you were tough, you wouldn't have."

The thief scowled. "I ran 'cause I ain't stupid."

Lior grinned. "Then tell me your name, Not-Stupid."

The boy hesitated. Then, after a long pause, muttered, "Flyn."

Lior nodded. "Lior."

"Good for you."

They stood in silence for a moment, eyeing each other.

Then Flyn huffed and turned. "Well, see ya, rat."

He climbed up a crate, swinging himself onto the ledge above.

Lior watched him go.

Then, without thinking, he called out—

"You steal alone?"

Flyn paused. Looked back.

For the first time, Lior saw something flicker in his eyes.

Something that looked a lot like loneliness.

Then, just as quick, it was gone.

"What's it to you?"

Lior shrugged. "Just curious."

Flyn stared at him for another long moment.

Then, without a word, he disappeared over the rooftops.

Lior exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

A smirk curled his lips.

Maybe Blackmire had more rats than he thought.

***

Lior stood in the alley for a long moment, watching the empty rooftop where Flyn had disappeared.

The city never stopped moving. Even in these backstreets, where the shadows stretched long and the air smelled like damp stone and unwashed bodies, life churned on. Voices from the street drifted over—the shouting of merchants, the clatter of hooves, the occasional burst of laughter that felt out of place in a city like Blackmire.

But here, in this narrow space between buildings, Lior felt alone.

Not in a bad way. Not yet.

He turned, stepping over puddles of something he didn't want to name, and made his way back toward the streets. He had no real plan.

But his stomach was empty, and his hands were empty, and that needed fixing.

The market was alive.

Bright colors—red fabrics, yellow fruits, flashing silver trinkets—stood out against the dull grays of Blackmire's walls. People pushed past one another, shoving, bartering, snapping at pickpockets like swatting flies.

Lior moved carefully.

He wasn't as reckless as Flyn. He didn't dart and snatch like some desperate gutter kid. No—he knew how to blend.

He walked close to a woman in fine, deep-green shawls, tilting his head up as if she were his mother. He matched her pace. To anyone watching, he was just a small child clinging to his mother's presence in the chaos.

Then, subtly, precisely, his fingers brushed against a hanging pouch at her waist.

He didn't take much. Just a few obols. Enough to fill his stomach. Not enough to make her notice.

Then he peeled away, slipping through the crowd again, this time beside a man in a long navy coat.

Another brush of his fingers. Another coin.

Lior wasn't greedy. Just smart.

He didn't take from the desperate. He didn't risk hands in pockets where the coin pouch would be too light. And he never—never—stole so much that they'd chase after him.

He was just a whisper in the crowd. A ghost.

Stealing wasn't about speed. Not really.

Most people thought it was. They thought a good thief was just someone with quick hands, someone who could grab and disappear before anyone noticed.

They were wrong.

Lior had learned a long time ago that a thief wasn't fast. A thief was invisible.

So he walked with purpose.

Not too slow. Not too fast. Just the right kind of busy.

Like he belonged.

Like he had somewhere to be.

Like a boy running errands for his very real, very angry mother who was definitely around here somewhere and would definitely raise hell if her son went missing.

That was his favorite trick. The "Mama's Watching" trick.

It worked best in crowds. People always gave space to a kid who looked like he had a mother who'd slap the teeth out of anyone who touched him.

Lior slipped between two women arguing over a pile of half-rotten apples, ducked under the arms of a merchant hauling a crate, then stepped neatly into the shadow of a broad-shouldered man.

And just like that—he disappeared.

The first one was easy.

A distracted woman, fumbling for coins in her purse.

Lior reached for the hem of her coat instead, found the slit in the fabric where the pocket lay underneath, and tugged just lightly.

A single coin slipped out.

Not all of them. Just one.

Enough for her to think she might've miscounted.

The second was trickier.

A man, big shoulders, sharp eyes. He had the look of someone who knew the weight of his own purse.

So Lior didn't aim for it.

Instead, he walked right into him.

A stumble, a flinch, a quick muttered "Sorry, sir!" as he reached out—

Not for the purse. For the clasp on his belt.

A single, practiced flick.

The leather-bound coin pouch slid loose.

Lior didn't grab it. That would be obvious.

Instead, he let it fall.

It hit the ground with a soft clink.

The moment the man took another step, Lior's foot nudged it just enough that it rolled into the base of a nearby cart.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

The man kept walking.

Lior did too—until he looped back and casually bent down to tie his shoe.

His very broken, very shoelace-less shoe.

The pouch disappeared into his sleeve.

He stood and kept walking.

Two clean takes.

***

Lior had rules.

Not many. But enough.

Enough to keep him from getting caught.

Enough to keep him from being stupid.

And the first rule?

Never take more than you need.

Because if someone stole just one coin, people assumed they lost it.

If someone stole an entire pouch?

People looked for a thief.

So he stuck to two.

One from the woman fumbling in her purse. A single coin slipped free.

One from the man with sharp eyes. The loosened pouch, nudged into the shadows.

Two clean takes.

Two coins he hadn't owned before.

And that was enough.

Lior didn't risk a third.

Didn't push his luck.

Because luck was a fickle bastard, and the moment you started trusting it was the moment it left you face-down in the gutter.

So he turned back.

Stepped out of the flow of bodies in the market.

Turned down a narrow alley, where the smell of piss and damp stone hit like a wall.

Kept walking.

Through the twists and turns of streets that most people never bothered to learn.

Streets that weren't on any maps.

But Lior knew them.

Knew which ones led home.

Because home wasn't a place people wanted to find.

And he liked it that way.

Lior's steps were light as he weaved through the narrow, winding veins of Blackmire.

Here, the streets weren't paved; they were stitched together with mud and regret.

Stone crumbled. Wood rotted. And the only thing holding the houses up was sheer stubbornness.

He passed by the usual sights—the toothless woman crouched beside a crate, chewing on something that definitely wasn't food. The group of men huddled together, voices low, passing a bottle back and forth.

A child no older than Tally sat on a doorstep, her knees drawn to her chest.

Her hands were covered in soot, her eyes blank.

She didn't move when he walked by.

She barely even blinked.

He kept walking.

Not because he didn't care.

Because caring didn't change anything.

Because caring wouldn't put food in her stomach.

Because he couldn't even put food in his own.

Lior exhaled, slipping a hand into his pocket, feeling the weight of his take.

37 scrips.

A quarter obol.

Not bad for a morning.

He clenched his fist around the coins, feeling the dull edges press into his skin.

Uncle Jonas had told him once—ten scrips made a tenth obol, ten tenths made an obol.

And his family needed at least five obols a month just to scrape by.

He let out a slow breath.

He had a long way to go.

His house wasn't far now—just past the rusted sewer gates that groaned whenever the wind pushed too hard.

Through the slanted alley where the old boards creaked underfoot.

Past the walls painted with filth and words nobody wanted to read.

And finally, to the sagging door that barely fit in its frame.

Home.

Lior pushed it open.

And stepped inside.